He moved through that battle like a god of earth, more a force of nature than a mortal. The blows of his hammer would send men flying, and the darts of the distant archers, falling on him like rain, were only as deadly as a spring shower. The king in his chair, his banner fluttering over his pavilion, clutched his sword and stood. The general beside him saw the motion and felt a chill. He whispered a command, and the runner ran; the signal flags waved and the archers ceased, the king’s men drew back, and the field cleared.
Out came the king, his beard grown long now, his step slow. A grand walk, a regal step, and though he had to lift his head up to face his opponent, he did not seem small before the giant.
No word was shared between the enemies, for no word was wanted. The old giant slayer, and this, the son of the giant Grynd, the last remnant of a passing age, shared no tongue but the dialogue of arms.
The hammer raised, and the king leapt forward. The giant sprung back as his blow fell. The monarch’s lunge carried his sword point true, the glimmering steal, blessed by fay, moving through the tough hide, piercing the bowels of the monster, but the hammer’s head, a cursed stone taken from the ruins of the burnt castle, descended and crushed the king’s back.
The giant’s hand waxed week, and the hammer fell from his grip as he clutched at his wound. The king lay face down in the mud, the giant’s blood sizzling on the end of his sword. He tried to stand, pushing himself up with his elbow, and knew his legs were dead. The giant tried to lift his foot to squash the king’s head beneath his heel, but in his weakness, he fell backward. Sitting there, he felt the coldness conquering his arms and legs as his life poured from him. The world grew dark as his body hardened into stone.
Tale Told 